Forever
by EvanescingSky
Summary: Ireland recovers from her punishment that England dealt for earning France's love. After he leaves to visit America, she sneaks off to a church for a chance to pray. An unexpected visitor comes to her and they share a moment in the cold.


Yay! More FraxIre! And I think this one was a bit happier...right? FYI for those who haven't read it, Ireland got the beating in my last vingette "Dangerous Liasons" after England found a poem France had written to her.

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><p>The pain was all she knew. It consumed her like fire, eating away at the very heart of her. Her skin felt so hot she wondered that it didn't drop off. Her mind was dazed, floating about in a sea of fog; the only thing that reached her was the searing agony in her limbs and back. Her face ached and any sound that reached her ears was fuzzy and distant. She laid like this for a span of a week and a half-on her belly (the pain in her back was too much to lie normally), semi-conscious, overwhelmed with pain, trying to remember her reason for existence.<p>

Into the second half of the second week, she heard voices. Shouting, yelling, screaming. She wanted to whimper and cover her ears-it was painful. But she tried to listen anyway-she felt it might be important.

"-not going anywhere until you let me see her!" an outraged voice shouted.

"It's none of your business, you fucking bastard! Don't think I don't know what's been going on! You've been lying to me this whole time, you son of a bitch! You've been fucking my sister right under my nose and lying to me! You said you loved me!" That was England speaking.

"I never said that," France replied coldly. They sounded like they were just outside her door. "And I never touched her! She's Catholic-I respect that. I would never lay a hand on her without her permission. A concept you seem to have trouble understanding, you pathetic excuse for a country."

"Get out of my house." England's voice was low and dangerous; Ireland had to strain to hear it. There was a momentary silence. "Get out now!" England roared. Scuffling sounded outside, but nothing broke through the teak door which separated Ireland from the rest of the world.

France didn't try to come see her again-that stung sorely. England granted her two more days' reprieve after the fight with France before she was on her feet again. She was given light duties for the next three days, then expected to return to her normal chores.

She was a ghost, but a ghost with a tiny sliver of bitter pleasure. She knew that no matter what, France would never love England the way England wanted him to; this was the only thing she could cling to as she shuffled about, her jaw tight with pain, tears watering in her eyes.

The other thing she cleaved to was defiance. She would not show weakness in front of England-she would not let him see her tears or her tortured faces or hear her complain. She took to every task at which he set her and she stayed until it was done. It was a small thing, a miniscule comfort to hang on when everything in her world seemed to be going to Hell and often she wondered if God had abandoned her and her people, but it was all she had. France was a mere memory now and his love seemed so very far away. Often she felt like the bird in one of her favorite folk songs.

"_And from the highest branch up there, I cry 'Oh wild wind won't you blow, and carry me to my love? I know not where to go. I'll spread my wings, on your windy back I'll fly. Oooh, wild wind, won't you blow?_'"

She sang the song often and wondered, with a sore place in her heart, if France was, across the Irish Sea and the English Channel, singing the same song.

England went to visit America. Ireland took the opportunity to creep from his house and make her way to one of the few Catholic churches in Ireland still standing. She wore a dress that was all black, with a weary old hat to keep her head as warm as she could. It was one of the few things she'd managed to hide in her room. She doubted that England was ignorant of its existence-more likely he just didn't feel like bothering with taking it away.

The church was abandoned, falling into ruin. The villagers had long since been driven out or killed. Ireland moved almost silently through the dead town, her feet scuffling along the icy road. A gray sky promised either rain or a slight snow. Little piles of the stuff gathered on patches of plants and dirt.

She made her way around to the back of the church, her numb hands clumsily stringing her rosary along. It was her most precious possession-a lovely thing of red beads with a cross on the bottom that bore Jesus's likeness, nailed to the cross. She'd had it for centuries and had swallowed it when England took her over, retching it back up in the relative safety of her room. Now it was the only thing of comfort she could hold in her small hands.

In the back was the graveyard, but there was also an intricately carved Celtic cross. It was to this stone sentential that she walked, stopping in front of it to bow her head and murmur Hail Marys' under her breath. They clouded up in the air around her, billowing about her face and neck. Her body was stiff and aching with cold, but she didn't move an inch. Her hands grew numb and once or twice she dropped the rosary, but she kept at it anyway. She moved on from the Hail Marys' to other prayers, sometimes falling silent but most often speaking; to herself, to God; to the church. Talking to her only confidants-the frigid stone monuments that surrounded her.

Suddenly something soft was draped across her shoulders. She startled, dropped the rosary, and turned with wide green eyes.

"I thought you might be cold, cherie," France said softly. He bit his lip and seemed as uncertain as Ireland had seen him before.

"Francis…" Her voice was cracked and raspy with cold. France reached out and brushed a clump of bright red hair back off her shoulder, returning it to the curtain that hung down her back. He put two fingers beneath her chin and lifted her face. Pain shot through his azure gaze when he saw the fading bruises and cuts on her face.

"What-" France almost asked what England had done to her, then he thought better of it. He didn't really want to know and he was sure she didn't want to relive it by telling him. "What are you doing?" he asked instead.

"Asking God if it's right for me to love you," she said bluntly. Her earnest eyes locked onto his, uncertainty shining in her visage.

"Sometimes I find your crude honesty refreshing," France joked lightly. His hand trailed along her jaw, his thumb rubbing her cheek-it was bitterly cold beneath his touch. There was a long silence. "What did God say?" France asked her.

"Nothing. He hasn't said much at all lately," Ireland murmured, stooping to scoop up her rosary. France place his hands over hers, folding them over the rosary.

"Since I found you here, since we were allowed to meet in this church, I think God says yes," France decided. He leaned in and kissed her forehead. Ireland made a quiet sound in the back of her throat and leaned her head against his chest.

"I hope so," she whispered, clutching the rosary in one hand that rested against France's chest. France buried his face in her hair, which had mostly grown back from its last shearing. His breath was warm against her neck, steaming out from his nose.

"I missed you," he said in her ear. "I wanted to come see you, but my boss forbade me."

"Then what are you doing here now?" she questioned.

"Breaking rules," France replied. He waited a minute before continuing. "I knew England would be visiting the New World today-he promised to watch Canada and America." Ireland didn't speak, so he started to rub her back, massaging her shoulder blades.

"Mmm…What if you get in trouble?" she mumbled.

"I'll deal with that if and when the problem arises," France said confidently. His tone dropped lower for his next words. "Maerad…"

"Shh!"

"What?" France was confused. "Your name is M-"

"No! My name isn't to be spoken," Ireland said quietly. "England has forbade it."

"Goddamn England!" France shouted.

"France! We're in a church!" Ireland scolded him, her eyes wide with fear.

"I mean it," France hissed, his voice dropping to a more secretive level again. "He denies you everything! England's forbade this, England's forbade that, and this and that and this and that and this and that!" His voice was rising again. Ireland desperately tried to get him to lower it, but France was furious. It took a great deal to make France lose his temper, but once he did, it was very hard to reign him in. "You don't get enough food or blanket or clothes! No hot water! No blasted shoes, for pity's sake! You're not allowed to speak your language or fly your flag or even practice your religion! Now you're telling me that England has forbade the use of your NAME?"

"That is what it is to belong to a foreign power," she said, her voice barely a wisp of a sound. "To belong to England." Her face closed up as the memories swamped her, and France regretted his words.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry _mon petite chou_," he cried, holding her tightly and rocking back and forth. He pressed his face into her hair again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I shouldn't have told you what you already know. I'm sorry, _amour_."

"It's not your fault," she responded, her voice muffled because her face was jammed against France's shoulder. She had no desire to ever move away.

"Ire-"

"Shh…"

"Ire-"

"Shh! Just be silent for a moment," she sighed, closing her eyes. "Let's just be silent for a moment." So they were. They just stood in place and as they did, snow began to swirl down from the dark skies. After a long time, when his body felt stiffened into its current position, France tried to speak again.

"Maerad," he began softly.

"Yes?" Her voice sounded so delicate, as if she were afraid to break this dream with words too harsh or loud.

"I love you," France said. Tears stung Ireland's eyes. She knew that they cared deeply for each other-yet they had never used the "L" word. It was something she held very sacred-it was reserved for Scotland and Wales alone these days. Once she had spoken it to someone else. Someone like France's Jeanne d'Arc. But like with Jeanne, it had come to naught. Her saint had passed away quietly, with no one there to see but her. She had held his hand and she remembered that date so disputed amongst historians. It was the first her heart had known of romantic love.

_Can you see me now, Patrick? Are you happy for me? I know you're in Heaven, mayhap watching me now. _

"I love you too," she told him. He tipped her head back again so he could look into her brilliant emerald eyes. His own dazzled with a supreme kind of joy Ireland realized she had never seen in France's face. He always looked happy, but this kind of unadulterated glee was something else. Before she could speak, he swooped in and kissed her on the mouth.

The rosary dug into her hand and she felt a warm wind sweep over her. _I think God must approve. _She stood up on tip-toe and kissed France back with all the energy she possessed. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she didn't stop to brush them away.

France had waited so long, so long to feel her lips against his and the kiss was as sweet as he thought it would be. She tasted of free air and salty sea breezes and something wild and free. Something that shouldn't be contained. He wanted to keep going, to make it stronger, deeper, but she resisted him and he remembered not to push her too far.

He broke it off first and just stared into her eyes. She stared back and they stood like that for so long neither of them knew how much time had passed, but it seemed immaterial. No matter what, France would always love Ireland. And they would never stop trying to find a way to be together, forever.


End file.
